


In the Trees

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative First Meeting, Blowjobs, Dom/sub Play, M/M, PWP, Praise Kink, Sex between strangers, Sunday smut that got too long, blowjobs in the woods between strangers, but they're not strangers really it's John and Sherlock, handjobs, tiny bit of air restriction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:44:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time the fierce stranger had dispatched the last armed assailant, then checked Sherlock for injury with his clever, capable hands, Sherlock was already gagging for it. Shortly thereafter he was gagging <i>on </i> it. Quite enthusiastically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Trees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [huddersandhiddles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/gifts).



> Completely un-beta'd and practically unedited. Composed in almost a single sitting between loads of laundry. Let me know about errors and typos because I've barely read this. Fair warning.
> 
> Check the tags!

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

The last assailant vanished into the trees. The unfortunate second-to-last assailant crumpled into a heap at the newcomer’s feet, and almost before his target hit the ground, he rounded on Sherlock, bristling with outrage and adrenaline. Sherlock, having recovered sufficiently from a vicious kick in the side to raise himself onto his elbows, stared in amazement at his scowling rescuer.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, but I _saw_ you.” Still scowling, the man crouched down beside Sherlock and began running his hands over him. _Touching him._ Sherlock held very still. The man felt the back of Sherlock’s head, then circled his hands around his neck with his fingers on his spine. Sherlock suppressed a shiver. Next, the incredible stranger felt along Sherlock’s collarbones, with firm presses of his fingertips. Sherlock followed his progress intently, unable to look away, and barely managed not to gasp when the man’s fingers flew to his face. With a thumb first on one cheek, then the other, he peered intently into each of Sherlock’s eyes.

He never stopped berating him the whole time. “Five against one. Five _armed men_ against one skinny idiot. And you drew them on purpose. You _wanted_ them to chase you. You must be some new kind of stupid.”

Sherlock was still staring, mouth open, uncharacteristically speechless. At this last comment, though, he shook himself and gathered his wits enough to respond. “No, not stupid. The Met are waiting at the other side of the pond. I only got them to chase me when it looked like they might avoid the ambush.”

The man completely failed to look impressed. “But I bet they weren’t supposed to _catch_ you, were they.” Content that Sherlock was largely undamaged, the stranger grasped his elbows and heaved him to his feet.

“No. I admit to a slight – ” Sherlock grunted as he straightened his bruised side “ – miscalculation. On that one point.”

At Sherlock’s wince, the man’s hands were back on his body, alarmingly and thrillingly creeping up his sides, pressing and palpating along his ribs, his eyes flicking back and forth between Sherlock’s face and his own diligent hands. Sherlock, too, his breath coming faster, watched the man’s face, and this time, when strong, clever fingertips passed over his pectorals and brushed a nipple on the way by, he was unable to contain his gasp.

The man paused in his efforts and, for the first time, really _looked_ at Sherlock. He took in his parted lips, the pupils wide and dark in his pale eyes, the small, panting breaths, and the flush that was blooming over ears and cheekbones, chest and throat, He pinned Sherlock with his dark blue gaze as a realisation dawned on his face.

Not breaking eye contact, he moved one thumb and flicked the nipple again. Sherlock’s whole body tensed in response. Another flick, and his breath hitched. One more, and he closed his eyes and dropped his head back, baring his throat to this magnificent stranger.

Who apparently understood completely. Understood _everything._ In a voice that was wholly unlike the one he’d used to castigate Sherlock a moment before, he spoke again. “I see. That’s good, I see how it is. Now listen carefully to what you’re going to do.”

Sherlock stilled, his head still thrown back, and concentrated on this new voice.

“You’re going to send a text. These guys won’t stay put forever, and you need to get your friends at the Met to come and clean up. My name is John. Say, ‘Yes, John.’”

“Yes, John.” _John._ All of Sherlock’s focus was centred on this captivating creature. _Intriguing._ He had not felt this kind of desire in as long as he could remember. If ever.

“After that, you’re going to follow me into the trees without speaking.”

“Yes, John.”

“And then you’re going to get down on your knees and I am going to put my cock down that beautiful throat.”

A shuddering breath. “ _Yes,_ John.”

“Good. Good lad. Your safeword is Scotland Yard. Tell me you understand.”

“Scotland Yard. I understand, John.”

“Very good. Now hop to it.”

***

Sherlock wasted no time at all in sending the text. When he was done, he turned to the stranger – _John –_ and saw that his back was already turned.

John began to walk, without looking behind him, and with a grateful sigh Sherlock fell into line. He looked neither left nor right, but kept his gaze fixed on the backs of John’s thighs as he followed him into the trees. He spent no time wondering at his own completely unprecedented reaction, only followed this fascinating stranger wherever he might lead.

When they were completely hidden from the path, John paused beside a tree and turned to face Sherlock. He didn’t speak, only looked at him expectantly, and Sherlock realised he’d already been given his next instruction. Ignoring the bruising in his side, he scrambled to his knees. He knelt there in the leaf litter, gazing up at John through his eyelashes.

He was actually trembling. His mouth was _watering_. This was extraordinary.

John returned his gaze matter-of-factly while he ran his hand up and down over the front of his trousers. The bulge that was rapidly filling up the available space was already quite impressive and Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come. After another moment, John undid his belt, popped open the button, and drew the zipper downwards, swiftly freeing his erection.

Sherlock stared. It was a beautiful cock, flushed and thick, the head already straining to emerge from the foreskin, and Sherlock could not wait to feel the weight of it on his tongue, or the force of it against the back of his throat. He leaned towards it, ready to take it in his mouth, but John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Eager, aren’t you? You’re so ready for me. That’s good. You can wait, though. We’re not quite there yet.” And here John reached into his pocket and took out a small square packet.

Sherlock’s face must have fallen, and he made a disappointed noise as he watched John unwrap the condom. He’d been hoping for a taste of more than latex.

John chuckled. “I appreciate the trust you’re showing me, gorgeous, and I intend to keep you safe.” He laid a hand on Sherlock’s head and stroked his hair a little, and he leaned into the touch. “I believe I’m clean, but I’m not willing to risk it. You’re not getting your mouth on me without protection.” He removed his hand from Sherlock’s head. “But I can let you have a sniff, if you like, before I put the condom on. Would you like that?” Sherlock nodded eagerly, staring at John’s cock. “You can speak. You’d like that, would you?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s gaze had not shifted.

At his assent, John took the back of Sherlock’s head in the palm of his hand, threading his fingers through the hair that curled there. He used his hand to bring Sherlock’s head close to his groin, and Sherlock took great breaths of air in through his nose, absorbing John’s smell, letting it wash over him. It was not enough to smell the air, though, or feel his heat, and Sherlock nosed forward to nuzzle at the base of John’s testicles, feeling the coarse hair, and the way the soft skin of his sac moved over the firm orbs within. Now he could feel (heat and skin and hair) as well as smell, and it was absolutely intoxicating.

He knew it was forbidden, but he couldn’t help himself. Before John could stop him, he opened his mouth and sucked one of his balls all the way in, across his tongue. It was _heavenly_.

It was, until John pulled him roughly away from his body, the gentle fingers at the back of his neck becoming tight and hard as he yanked Sherlock’s head back and down. John glared down at Sherlock with narrowed eyes, while Sherlock struggled to keep some defiance in his face, in spite of the pain.

“You were given clear instructions, were you not? Answer.”

“Yes, John.” His breath hissed through his teeth.

“You disobeyed. I was giving you a treat, and you took advantage. What do you have to say?”

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it – ” John jerked his hair again and he subsided.

“You’re going to have to do better than that. This next part is going to have to be harder for you, and I expect you to show better self control. No sound, do you understand me? Unless you need to safeword, not a sound. Answer.”

“No sound. Yes, John. Thank you.”

“Nice manners don’t make up for disobedience.” John released Sherlock’s hair long enough to roll the condom on, then wrapped Sherlock’s curls around his fingers once more, pulling until he liked the angle. “Open your mouth.”

Sherlock hastened to comply, and the next instant his mouth was full of John’s impressive cock, which felt even larger pressing into his mouth than it had looked emerging from John’s flies.

He did his best with tongue and suction, teasing at the head and then taking John’s length down his throat as far as he could, slowly pulling back and tonguing the frenulum through the thin latex. John allowed the teasing for a while, keeping a sure grip on Sherlock’s hair but otherwise allowing him to move freely and decide for himself how he wanted to proceed. Sherlock had escaped his punishment, it seemed.  _Perhaps he only talks tough._  

The next moment, though, Sherlock swallowed him down again, and he groaned, and suddenly Sherlock was not in charge any longer.

John’s fingers clenched in Sherlock’s hair, pulling painfully at the sensitive skin of his scalp, and used the pressure to tilt Sherlock’s head even further back. With his other hand, he angled his cock into Sherlock’s mouth, and pushed all the way to his soft palate, then impossibly further, testing Sherlock’s gag reflex as he went.

Sherlock’s eyes watered, but he held on, hollowing his tongue so that it wrapped around John’s cock, willing himself not to resist John’s hands, willing himself to stay silent. John seemed pleased at Sherlock’s compliance, and satisfied with his endurance. He brought both hands to the sides of his head. “Hold on,” he said, and began to fuck his mouth in earnest.

Sherlock’s mouth was gloriously full and he reveled in the relentless thrusts against the back of his throat that threatened to choke him each time but always stopped just short. He was determined to do exactly as John wanted, but it was so easy when this was also precisely what he craved. It was rough and punishing; he had ceded control to someone who knew exactly how to make the best use of it. At each clench of fists in the hair behind his ears, at each slap of John’s balls against his chin, he felt his own erection grow more and more insistent. He hoped that John would let him take care of it when this was finished, in spite of his misbehaviour.

He couldn’t think about that, now, though, because now John’s thrusts were going erratic. His control was slipping, too, and some of his strokes were pounding even deeper into Sherlock’s throat, momentarily cutting off his air. He drew in frantic breaths through his nose when he could, and increased the suction as John pulled away. It took all of his focus to hold on, but as he felt John barrelling towards the precipice, he knew he would not wish to be elsewhere.

This man was splendid, was outstanding, was superb, and Sherlock knelt there with his cock down his throat feeling only the purest gratitude at the chance that had thrown them into each other’s path.

John made a noise, then, and clamped his hands down on either side of Sherlock’s head. The next moment, he was coming, and shouting as he came, and Sherlock softened his mouth a little to guide him through his climax.

He hadn’t made a sound.

John took a few deep breaths and eased his grip on Sherlock’s hair, smoothing out his curls. He smiled widely at him as he gently withdrew his softening cock from his mouth. Sherlock basked in the glow of his smile.

John talked while he set himself to rights, and his words made Sherlock glow all the brighter. “You did so well, sweetheart. That wasn’t easy, what I put you through, but you stayed with me right to the end. I’m so proud of you.”

He removed the condom and tied it off, laying it by carefully for a moment. Next, he produced a pocket handkerchief (Sherlock had to admire how prepared the man was) and cleaned the tears from Sherlock’s streaming face, the saliva from his swollen mouth, and the semen from his own penis. He tucked himself back into pants and trousers and zipped himself up, all the while keeping up a stream of endearments and praise. “There, look at your poor eyes, you could hardly breathe, could you? And you still didn’t make a sound, just like I said. You did so well. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Once he was finished tidying, he placed the handkerchief on the ground next to the used condom, and reached for Sherlock again. He raised him to his feet, then turned him so that Sherlock’s back was flush with John’s front. His arms wove under Sherlock’s and wandered up to his neck, stroking and massaging as they went, making much of Sherlock, bringing him back to himself. He ran his hands over Sherlock’s whole torso, pausing to palm at his nipples before sliding down his abdomen.

He slid further down until both hands found Sherlock’s erection, still straining against the flies of his trousers. “Oh, dear, you _were_ enjoying that, weren’t you? You gorgeous, filthy thing. You must have been so uncomfortable, and you never let on, not for a second. But you know what, sweetheart? You’ve been so good today, so very, very good, that I’m going to take care of this for you. Is that all right? Will you let me, sweetheart? Answer.”

“Oh, yes, John.”

“And you can make all the noise you want, all right? Can’t say fairer than that.” And with that, John set to his task. He had Sherlock’s cock out of his trousers in no time. With one hand, he stroked Sherlock’s shaft, gently at first, then more and more firmly as Sherlock arched into his touch and canted his hips, desperately seeking more pressure. With the other hand, he cupped Sherlock’s bollocks, manipulating them in his palm, or reaching behind them to stroke his perineum.

It all felt wonderful. Sherlock was completely undone in minutes, his head thrown back to rest on John’s shoulder, his hips jerking in time with John’s hands, and the most obscene sounds emerging from his still-tender throat. John urged him on, calling him _gorgeous,_ calling him _beautiful_ , telling him he was _so good,_ he was _amazing,_ he was _perfect._ Sherlock swelled under his hands and under his praise until he gave a final, desperate gasp and came in several long, rolling waves, across John’s hand.

John, methodical and tidy, used the handkerchief he’d laid on the ground to clean his hand and Sherlock’s spent penis, then wrapped the used condom in it and put it away in his pocket. Sherlock watched him as he took care of everything. _Such care._

When they’d looked each other over and straightened their clothing one last time, they left behind no evidence of their activities (or none that would be visible to anyone but Sherlock).

No evidence on the ground, that is. The evidence that swirled inside of Sherlock’s mind could not be so easily tidied away.

***

They emerged from the trees to see several of London’s finest milling around the scene of the brawl. The suspects had all been carted away.

“Sherlock! There you are.” Lestrade turned away from his team and came towards them. “Everything went off smoothly, I’d say. You’ll need to come in and finish the paperwork, but it should be fairly straightforward. Good work.” He looked inquiringly at John, then from him to Sherlock, and back again. “Were you…involved?”

John smiled. “Only a little bit, at the end.” Sherlock snorted. 

“And you are?”

“John Watson.” _Watson._ Sherlock filed that away.

“Ah, well, that clears up a little mystery then.” Greg held out his hand to a sergeant walking by, and she placed a long, thin object in his hand. “We found this lying on the ground, didn’t know whose it was. _JHW_ engraved on the handle. Yours?” And he held it out to John – a walking stick.

Sherlock was about to scoff at him, to point out that John could not only _walk_ unaided, but could also take down several armed assailants at the same time, but he didn’t because John was reaching out slowly and grasping the cane with a very odd look on his face.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s mine. I must have dropped it and not realised.” He paused, then added, “Thank you.”

When Lestrade had wandered off again, John and Sherlock looked at each other. There was an awkward pause.

“Look – “ John began, but Sherlock cut him off. John was going to leave and that would be the end. And Sherlock didn’t want that.

He talked. It was his only tool. If he was talking, John wouldn't just walk away. “You’re an army veteran. You were injured in action. Shot, I’d say, but not in the leg. Either Afghanistan or Iraq, obviously, but I can’t tell which. You were a doctor there. Which was it?”

John stared. “Afghanistan.”

“You’re back in London now, but you feel alienated, like you don’t belong. You have no close family, or not nearby anyway.”

John was still staring. This was the man who had taken down three criminals, who had competently checked him over for injury, who had taken charge when Sherlock had fallen into subspace, and whose mouth and hands and cock were now taking up all the space in Sherlock’s mind, leaving only the barest sliver for deductions. Sherlock kept talking, tethering John with his voice.

“You’re… _Oh._ You’re looking for a flatshare. So am I.” It was obviously too much, too soon, on the strength of too little, but he couldn’t help it. “I have my eye on a nice little place in Central London.” He took a breath. “Together we ought to be able to afford it.”

They stared at each other. Sherlock finally stoppered his mouth. He waited.

“Is that it?” John’s face was unreadable.

“Is that what?” Sherlock’s was miserable.

“We’ve only just met, and we’re going to go look at a flat?”

“Problem?” Obviously there was a problem. Unusually, Sherlock was even pretty sure he knew what it was. But he was going to make John say it, because that would keep him here a minute or two longer.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock looked at John, and his face was openly longing. There was nothing he could hide from this man. “Do you think we know so little?”

A sigh. “I suppose not.”

“Do you think…do you think this is the sort of thing I do every day? I’ve ever done, with someone I’d only just met?”

“No, god, I know it isn’t. I can see it isn’t.” John frowned. “And it’s not…usual for me, either. Bloody well unheard of.”

“Special.” He couldn’t believe what he was spouting, but it felt true.

A half smile. “Yeah.”

“I just…" And then he told the truth. "I don’t want this to be the last time I see you. I think we…” He trailed off. There was only so much sentimental drivel he could allow himself to utter in one day. “Look, will you come see the flat? We don’t have to… I mean… there’s no obligation.”

There was a long silence. Then, “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I’ll come. No promises, but I’ll come and see it."

Sherlock’s smile infused his whole face, and he made no attempt to restrain it. “Splendid. I need to go with Lestrade now, but I’ll meet you there tomorrow, seven o’clock. All right?”

John gave an answering smile, in spite of himself. “Yeah, all right.”

Sherlock turned to go. “The name is Sherlock Holmes, by the way, and the address is 221B Baker Street.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Look, this was supposed to be three or four paragraphs of smut on tumblr for hudders-and-hiddles but my partner took the kids out for the afternoon and this just sort of...happened. You know how it is.


End file.
